


Excalibur

by writteninhaste



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-05
Updated: 2010-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninhaste/pseuds/writteninhaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And on that weapon wielded by King Arthur, had the blacksmiths of Avalon carved a phrase. On one side the blade read 'take me up' and on the other 'cast me away'.</p><p>But, having once possessed it, what sort of man would throw such beautiful craftsmanship aside?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Excalibur

Arthur returned home to a note on the table and an apartment far less cluttered than it was three weeks ago. The milk in the fridge was sour and the fruit in the basket speckled with grey mould. The bed was impeccably made and the bathroom was immaculate. That more than anything told Arthur that Eames probably threw things a lot before he left. The well ordered apartment had a passive-aggressive feel to it. The note was well-penned (another anomaly) and said only: _I thought better of you than this_. Arthur was damned if he knew what that meant.

Annoyed, Arthur crushed the note in one hand and shoved it in the bin. The spoiled food quickly followed. Arthur stood beside his couch, an uncomfortable itch making itself known beneath his skin. He hated feeling so unsettled. Damn Eames.

The hot water of a shower did nothing to alleviate Arthur’s frustration. He stood beneath the spray, hands braced against the tile, and resisted the urge to kick the wall of the shower. He would only break his foot. Arthur had been convinced he knew the status of what he and Eames had with one another. Self first, work second, each other third. That Eames had suddenly called foul – without there having been any rules in place – messed with Arthur’s established world view. He did not like it.

The hot water eventually ran out. Arthur stood in the dripping stall until the chill got the better of him. The apartment seemed too large without anyone else moving around in it. Wrapped only in a towel, Arthur made his way to the spare bedroom. Though too large by far, he had converted it into an office. The second desk he had placed against the wall was now empty. Arthur spared it no more than a glance. There was a message from Cobb on the answer machine. Arthur let it play as the laptop took its time coming to life. Cobb’s message rolled over into silence before the machine informed him of the time and date of the last call. Arthur ignored it. There was no message from Eames.

Turning in his chair to look out across the harbour, Arthur wondered just where Eames had gone and why. It was not so much that Eames had left but that he appeared to be blaming Arthur for the decision. Arthur wanted to know just what was going on. Arthur battled his pride for the space of a heartbeat then picked up the phone.

He was surprised, almost, when Eames answered.

“Hello, darling.” Eames sounded tired. There was a rasp to his voice and the whistle of air before he spoke told Arthur he was smoking.

“You weren’t here when I got back.”

Laughter tumbled down the line. Eames laughed until a fit of coughing overtook him. It made him sound like he was chewing broken glass.

“Eames.”

Breath rattled as Eames sucked oxygen back into his lungs. Arthur got up and started looking for the Cognac. He poured himself a healthy measure as he listened to Eames smoke down the phone at him.

The light in the sitting room was dim. The glow of the city and the boats on the water spilled across the furniture, but the place was more shadows than anything. In the sky the stars were just beginning to emerge.

“There was a woman.” Eames said. “She was very beautiful. Her name was Maria.”

Arthur swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. “What did she want?”

Eames was silent. “For you to spend time with your son.” He said eventually.

Arthur scowled at the glass he held in one hand and gripped the phone tighter with the other. “I don’t have a son.”

“Do you not.”

“No.”

“Well, she seemed to think the boy was yours. And I must say he looks quite like you.”

Arthur blinked. “You met him?”

“I did.”

Arthur turned to stare at the apartment. At the dining table with the carved wooden chairs to match. “How old?”

“About two, I’d say. Give or take.” Arthur’s throat was tight. Unbidden, an image of a child, dark head bowed, scribbling away at a piece of paper, entered his head.

“Two years old.” Eames said. His voice was heavy. “By my calculation we’ve been together at least five. Though I prefer to think it closer to six.”

Arthur frowned. “We never said we were exclusive, Eames. I thought we agreed it was simply convenience.”

Eames was quiet for a very long time. Arthur heard nothing to indicate he was still smoking. “Six years and you’re just going to dismiss us as _‘convenient’_?” Arthur could hear the anger threading through the words.

Arthur wanted more Cognac, but he did not want to put glass or phone down in order to pick up the decanter. “Please tell me it hasn’t just been me for all these years.”

“Who else was there going to be Arthur? Who else was I going to fly half across the world to see? And you – apparently you couldn’t bloody well keep it in your pants whenever I had to leave.”

“I never once came to Mombasa.” Arthur said. It was a non-sequitur, of sorts. But it got the point across.

“No,” Eames said. “No, I suppose you never did. More fool me.”

“Eames.”

“My apologies, darling. I explained you were away on business. Maria will be by later in the week if you want to see your child.” He hung up.

Arthur stood cradling a dial tone and an empty glass. Outside, the moon began to rise.

oOo

Arthur could not see much of himself in the boy who was supposedly his son. Dark eyes and dark hair appeared to be all the features they shared – but those could equally have come from his mother. He remembered Maria – vaguely – once he saw her again. Her laugh had been what first attracted him; the way she would tilt her head back in delight at a joke. She had named the boy Diego and Arthur watched as he played with a toy on the living room floor.

“Why wait two years?” Arthur asked.

“It took me that long to find you.”

It was possible, Arthur supposed. Though he would pay good money to know how she had found his address at all. He did not remember them ever exchanging anything but first names and bodily fluids.

Maria excused herself to the bathroom and Arthur took a sample of Diego’s DNA.

oOo

Diego was not his son. Arthur did not wait to see whether Maria had made an honest mistake or had been trying to fool him. He took a job in Mumbai and spent the following weeks ruthlessly digging through his mark’s personal life. The team was not one he had worked with before and Arthur dropped them as soon as the job was completed.

He took the first available flight to Malaysia with the vague thought of currying contacts and scouting for jobs in the area. Returning to Boston was an option, of course, but it would be less beneficial than spending some times in Asia.

The night markets of Penang were much as he remembered them – brimming with people and the air rich with spices. A vendor, somewhere to Arthur’s left, proclaimed that his is the best Rojak in Penang. Arthur did not stop to test the theory. The night air was heavy whilst around him people chatter and laugh.

He wound his way through the streets to his hotel. Arthur raided the mini bar for a selection of liquors before shouldering his way into the open air. His balcony provided him with an ocean view. On the water, a pleasure boat drifted close to harbour.

There had been a time, many years ago, when Eames has met him in Jakarta. Arthur had been finished a job and when he returned to the hotel, Eames was slumped on the couch and an Eastern Press edition of The Book of the Thousand Nights had been resting on the coffee table. The book still stood on Arthur’s shelves in Boston. He had never given much thought to the sentiment behind the gift before. He did not like to think that a gift he had believed stolen and a bribe for sex had been honestly paid for and given out of a sense of affection.

oOo

His sources said Eames was back in Mombasa. Arthur booked a flight their before he could question his own motives.

The flight was long and tedious. By the time Arthur landed in Nairobi he was ill-tempered and dehydrated. About him people jostled and hugged – greeting family members and making their way to various modes of transport. The humidity when he stepped outside was like a physical blow. The true rains would not start for a few weeks but already the ground was wet and the sky overhead threatened constant showers throughout the afternoon. His prediction proved true. By the time Arthur boarded the overnight train to Mombasa, he had been forced to seek shelter from three separate downpours. As he waited on the platform, Arthur wondered what he intended to do once he found Eames. This conversation could have easily been conducted via phone call – chasing the man halfway across the world seemed ludicrous.

The train shuddered and jerked along the tracks but if gave Arthur time to think. Six years since the night he and Eames had fallen into bed together. Six years of meeting in various places around the globe to fuck. There were spaces – all over the Boston apartment – where things Eames had owned had once belonged. The same was true, to a lesser extent, to the flat in Berlin and the small loft he kept near the Seine. Even in Istanbul – a place Arthur had not been to in years – Arthur found pocket knife that was not his. Eames had never met him in Istanbul, and Arthur vaguely remembered putting the knife down on the table and forgetting to pick it up again. Eames had never asked for it back.

The sun was already climbing in the sky by the time the train arrived in Mombasa. Arthur tipped the steward and hauled his luggage out of the train. Sweat instantly began to congregate beneath the strap of his bag as Arthur hailed a taxi.

He was forced to jimmy the lock when he arrived. Dust swirled in the air as he pushed open the door, sunlight highlighting the meandering path of the particles across the currents. It was clear Eames had not been to the place in quite a while.

Dropping his bag by the moth-eaten piece of furniture masquerading as a sofa, Arthur surveyed the apartment. A bookshelf was pressed against one wall, an empty liquor cabinet beside it. The water from the taps ran brown then clear; the bed had no sheets on it.

Arthur left his stuff where it was and went back out into the heat. A boy showed him to Yusuf’s den, smiling face crinkling when Arthur pressed money into his palm in thanks. He took off, chattering to his friends and leaving Arthur to walk up the steps.

A cat with only one ear scuttled past Arthur’s feet, disappearing around a door in search of some treat. Arthur looked up to see Yusuf standing at the top of the staircase, watching him carefully.

“Welcome.” He said. Arthur nodded hello, and offered the vaguest of smiles. He did not climb any further. At last, Yusuf sigh and motioned Arthur to come up, turning away into a room off the landing.

The office was clean and a small fan wafted a tepid breeze towards the door. Yusuf took a seat behind the desk, indicating for Arthur to do the same with the one left. The cat from earlier leapt into Yusuf’s arms and regarded Arthur with glassy, yellow eyes. Yusuf poured them both a drink and Arthur cradled it as he contemplated what to say.

“My intel. said he would be here.” Was what he settled on eventually.

Yusuf nodded petting the cat idly. “He was for a while. He left though.”

“Where to?”

“Who can say?” It was hardly phrased like a question.

Arthur frowned and sipped his tea. “Why?”

Yusuf did not pretend to misunderstand. “Job offer. A chance to walk on the legal side. Serve Queen and country once again.”

“He wouldn’t rejoin the army.” Arthur was very sure of this fact. He remembered Eames fresh from Dream-Share, shoulders newly stripped of the bars they had worn. He remembered working with Eames and watching the bruises slowly fade from his cheeks, whilst they both learnt to stand at something other than attention.

Yusuf smiled at him and let the cat jump free of his arms. “Perhaps you are right, my friend. But who am I to judge?”

“London, then.”

“If you like.”

oOo

London was a possibility, but standing in Nairobi airport, staring at the departures, Arthur chose not to buy a ticket. From Nairobi he made his way to Kabul. From Kabul he crossed into Antakya. Turkey took him to Russia; to Belgium and Japan. Cobb called occasionally – mainly to keep Arthur appraised as to the children’s growth and to make idle conversation.

Boston remained a stopping point – a place to rest for a handful of days and collect new clothes. The apartment smelt as though it needed to be aired and Arthur never bothered to reconnect the fridge. As autumn began to creep into the city, Arthur repaired to St Petersburg. The weather was distinctly cooler but Arthur relished in the bite of the air and the promise of snow by the time November stole into view.

His apartment in the city was nothing to boast about but it was warm and dry and serviceable. The apartment next door was occupied by a woman named Elaina. She worked for a foreign export company, and smiled at Arthur whenever they passed in the hallway. Arthur approached their liaisons as he did so many things these days: with thoughts of _why not?_.

She would dig her nails into the meat of his shoulders; bite her lip against the noises she wanted to make. When she spoke it was with the soft, rounded vowels of the Home Counties. Arthur bolted for the stables when the ice began to melt and Elaina presented him with a trinket she had found on a market stall and thought he would find amusing.

oOo

London showed signs of recent rain, but the sky was clear as Arthur stepped out of the taxi. The driver nodded as he accepted the fare, waiting until Arthur had stepped back from the curb to pull away. Still, the edge of a puddle spilled onto the concrete and Arthur was forced to hop out of the way.

The street on which he was standing was modest – a quiet mews tucked away from the more major thoroughfares. The cobbles clacked beneath Arthur’s heals and he could smell the daffodils someone had planted. He found the green-painted door with ease. It opened before he had a chance to knock.

Eames’ eyes were brighter than Arthur had remembered. He looked thinner in the face but as broad as always in the chest. He was staring at Arthur as though he had no idea what to do with him. Arthur simply stood, returning the gaze. He wondered briefly whether he should try to look contrite, apologetic. But Eames could easily see through a lie. They stood like that for what seemed like an age – Eames searching Arthur’s face and Arthur giving nothing back. At last, Eames seemed to come to a decision. He stepped back from the door and motioned Arthur inside.

There was no offer to take Arthur’s coat or bags. They simply stood, in the white-painted hallway with a blue umbrella and a pair of green wellingtons propped up by a coat rack and an antique-looking mirror.

“I was honestly not expecting to see you, Arthur.” Eames’ voice was lighter than when Arthur had last heard it. No doubt he had once again given up smoking. Arthur wondered how long it would last this time.

“No,” Arthur said. “I guess you weren’t.”

Eames simply looked at him, waiting for him to go on.

“I went to Mombasa. You weren’t there. Yusuf said you’d been gone for a while – didn’t know where. I guessed London but –“ Arthur paused. “I took a job in Kabul.” Then he added. “He wasn’t my son.”

Eames ran a hand across his jaw. For some reason, it made him look older. “It’s been a year.”

“I know.”

“And what? We just pick up where we left off? Me thinking we’re building towards something and you letting me in whenever it’s convenient.” The word was said with no rancour but Arthur still fought the urge to flinch.

“We never agreed on anything, Eames.”

Eames shook his head. “No, we didn’t. But Christ, Arthur – even if there were no ground rules. Six years? No one shags someone for six years, shares a flat with them, cooks dinner and buys food and honestly thinks that there’s nothing there but sex.”

And that was the truth. Arthur may not have paid enough attention to realise just what they were doing but it was the truth. He had played one half of a couple and happily let Eames buy him things and share his home. But he’d placed Eames in the role of favoured mistress and refused to acknowledge any evidence that said otherwise.

Eames stayed silent until the quiet had stretched on too long. “Do you regret it?”

Arthur was not quite sure to what Eames was referring. Still, the answer was the same. “No.”

“Do you want to be here? Or anywhere else for that matter?”

Arthur had to think about that one. “I don’t know.”

Eames laughed, short and bitter. “Well, at least you’re honest.”

“I never meant not to be.”

Eames sighed, and turned away. “Of course, darling. More fool me.”

 **End**


End file.
